


Is This Your Card?

by Etienne_Bessette



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Detective Batman detects, Gen, Knight vs Anarchy, Murder, Not compliant with Dark Knight Rises, Post-The Dark Knight, Team Knight, The Joker plays games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etienne_Bessette/pseuds/Etienne_Bessette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Batman doesn’t know what the Joker is playing at this time, nor does he care. He isn’t interested in indulging the clown’s twisted mind games. He wants the Joker caught and back in the Asylum before he can destroy any more lives, preferably heavily sedated and with a few broken limbs.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is This Your Card?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 18th round of [](http://knightvsanarchy.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://knightvsanarchy.livejournal.com/)**knightvsanarchy**  . 
> 
> This fic is intended to provide an unofficial story to [THIS BATMAN COMIC COVER](http://pics.livejournal.com/_rubber_chicken/pic/00059kh7). There is not currently any official story to go with this art. This is a CRIME. So I am fixing it. Unfortunately I haven't gotten to writing out this scene yet, but it's coming. I SWEAR. (Also, you will notice that the Joker is using the Ace of Spades here. This is beyond awesome. Some of you will know exactly where I plan to go with this.)  
> (UPDATE) I will finish this eventually.

  
The sky rains cold needles onto glass shards sharp and slick and warm with blood. Sticky threads well up black against the alley’s grey pavement and trickle towards a gurgling sewer drain buried beneath years of grime and the tattered discards of Gotham’s poor. A streetlamp coughs and sputters reluctant yellow light onto the empty sidewalk beyond—and away from—the alleyway’s maw. 

No one is watching.

Batman stares at the tattered and broken carcass by his feet. He does not know this man, though even if he did he doubts he would be able to recognize him anymore; his body is black with blood and burnt bone, buckled and broken and bent like a disjointed wooden puppet whose strings have been cut and limbs cannibalized for parts. The puppeteer has laid him out on glass in the rain and has pinched cloth between slivers of split bone, twisting and wrapping and rearranging until what’s left looks like the body of a bat, wings outstretched for flight.

There is a note, too: a solitary scrap of white somehow unstained by the mess it’s pinned to. Its sibling—the note that had led him to this forgotten hole in civilization—is crushed within Batman’s right fist. He’d found the latter on a henchclown—one of nine sent to terrorize a nursing home. There hadn’t been a point to the raid, other than to catch Batman’s attention and deliver the note.

The second note—the one pinned to the sodden corpse—does not say much. It is a white playing card, one of those blanks sometimes found in Bicycle decks. On the top surface, the Joker has scribbled a question in green ink: _Is THIS your card?_

Batman bends and unpins the card, flipping it over to the other side where he finds a set of cryptic directions similar to the ones that had led him here. He studies them for a moment, then flicks his eyes back to the twisted display on the ground.

Sometimes Batman wishes he’d let the Joker fall from the Prewitt building.

Arkham hadn’t caged the madman for long. Within five weeks he had driven two psychiatrists into early retirement; one went home to Florida while the other, less lucky, found peace in silence beneath stone ( _You’re so serious!_ the Joker had told him. _You and the grave are made for each other!_ ). Within two months, the Joker had amassed a following of cronies that surpassed Scarecrow’s. A week after that, the Asylum’s security system had gone down and insanity had hemorrhaged out from the walls and gates into the streets of Gotham.

Batman has been searching for him ever since, trading hours of sleep for the biting night wind and gutter rats that tremble in his fists and swear that they don’t know anything about the Joker, and even if they did, does he really think they’d tell him?

Batman has rules.

Joker doesn’t.

Batman is reminded of this as he stares down at a bat-signal fashioned from bone, tied with flesh and cloth, and painted with blood sluggish and black in the cold, wet, moonless night.

_Is THIS your card?_

Batman doesn’t know what the Joker is playing at this time, nor does he care. He isn’t interested in indulging the clown’s twisted mind games. He wants the Joker caught and back in the Asylum before he can destroy any more lives, preferably heavily sedated and with a few broken limbs.

The card wrinkles beneath the pressure of his fingers. It’s his only lead. The Joker has learned Gotham’s secrets: her nooks and hideaways and twists and turns. The Joker can run with almost as much skill as Batman can chase, and the Joker has the advantage of a head-start.

Batman doesn’t have a choice but to play the game for now.

He folds the card away in a plastic bag tucked in his belt and sighs. There is nothing he can do about the once-man crumpled on the ground. The murder will be blamed on Batman, of course, thanks to the symbol the victim has been twisted to resemble. Knowing the Joker, that was part of the idea.

_They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out…_

Batman knows what the Joker is trying to prove. But what the Joker doesn’t understand is that Batman doesn’t _need_ to be loved or accepted by the people he protects. He just needs to protect them.

But, then, sometimes he can’t even do that. Batman thinks of Rachel and Harvey Dent and wonders if the Joker knows how much it _kills_ him that he couldn’t save them.

Batman looks at the corpse one last time. Maybe the Joker does understand after all.

He grapples to the rooftops and uses his cell phone to leave an untraceable, anonymous tip with the Gotham City Police Department. Murder in the narrows is common, but not something as gruesome and vicious as the mess in the alley below, and Batman fears that more of its like will surface soon.

He ghosts across pinched rooftops and slippery shingles through shadows and steam shrouds of rain until he is crouched beneath a sheltering ledge of a tall building, high and far away from everything. Then he takes out the card—still in the sealed plastic bag—and studies what the Joker has written. Later he will return to the Bat Cave and run chemical diagnostics in the hopes that something microscopic will speak to fill the gaps that words have left silent.

But for now he stands sentinel beneath a sky that bleeds needles, and tries to understand the mind of his enemy.

_I’ll find you_ , he swears silently. _And when I do…_

Batman only has _one_ rule.

~*~

Hours later and somewhere along the greyest edges of Gotham, a man in bright colors paces the splintered basement of a fraying apartment choked beneath dust and soot. He looks out of place: obscenely loud technicolor staining the grainy sanctity of a forgotten silent film. He wears a new coat; his last one had been confiscated and destroyed. His hair is clean from months spent in the Asylum where orderlies scrub dirt away like they think it might fix whatever festers underneath (it never does). Wavy locks freshly dyed a radioactive green brush a painted jaw taut and clenched with concentration.

“Didn’t like the first one, _did_ he? No…too, hnnn, _obvious_ , I suppose,” the Joker mutters, turning on his heel at the edge of the room and pacing back the other way. “Maybe _this_ one…no no NO no, not his _style_. Hmmm.”

The Joker shuffles through a deck of cards that are as colorless as his surroundings; even the hearts and diamonds are just thin black outlines instead of full red shapes. A number of the cards sprinkle the floor, dismissed and tossed away as unsuitable. A majority of the hearts suit lies there, along with several clubs.

“ _Orrrrr_ …” the Joker holds up a single card to the pale light of the basement’s only lamp. He smiles. The corners of his mouth follow the upward curve of the scarlet greasepaint on his ruined lips and cheeks. “ _THIS_ one…”

Laughter, high and shrill, bubbles from his lungs in crazed gasps that scrape the brittle air like sandpaper on skin.

“Time for Round Two!”

~*~

Bruce Wayne doesn’t bother to show up to a meeting that he would have just slept through anyway. Instead he keeps himself awake with coffee and adrenaline and stares at the literature search on his computer screen while machines hum in the background, running assay after assay on a tiny corner-edge torn from each card.

Bruce had learned very quickly that the card he had found was actually two cards: one spliced almost invisibly between the cloven halves of another. When he’d carefully peeled the pieces apart, the King of Spades had gazed up at him with black, empty eyes.

_Is THIS your card?_

Bruce can hear the madman’s low, nasal drawl scraping inside his head. He grits his teeth and imagines breaking the clown’s nose. Then he thinks about Rachel, and then Harvey Dent and everyone else that the Joker has taken away, and he imagines doing worse.

None of it helps.

Bruce forces his focus back to his computer screen. Daydreaming about catching the Joker won’t help anything. Solving the riddle will. He rereads the passage, even though he has the words burned into the hollows behind his eyes by this point, hoping to see something, _anything_ illuminating.

If he should say 'HOW CAME YOU HERE?'

(The way that YOU began, Sir,)

In such a case your course is clear -

'ON THE BAT'S BACK, MY LITTLE DEAR!'

Is the appropriate answer.

The message on the card—easily the worst set of directions he has ever received in his life—had screamed _quote_ to Bruce instantly. A quick internet search had identified the source: Lewis Carroll’s seven canto poem _Phantasmagoria_. The poem is sprinkled with puns throughout—something that would appeal to the Joker. It’s obvious to Bruce why the Joker had picked this particular stanza as well. What _isn’t_ obvious is the meaning behind it.

Bruce had read and reread the entire poem, looking for context or clues. He had picked the stanza apart line by line and word by word, casting for different angles of meaning and catching only nonsense and frustration.

Bruce sighs and leans back in his chair. He sips a cup of coffee to keep himself from dozing off. _On the Bat’s back, my little dear!_ Bruce thinks that line could be a reference to the next victim. The Joker is probably planning to implicate Batman in his next murder. _It fits the context of the rest of the canto_ , Bruce thinks. _A ghost haunts his chosen victim, the victim asks how he came to be where he is, the ghost replies “on the bat’s back”._

It makes sense, certainly, but it doesn’t at all help Bruce narrow down _where_.

Bruce tips the last swallow of coffee into his mouth and is about to stand up to fetch another cup when he hears machinery grind at the far end of the hallway.

_Alfred,_ Bruce thinks. He imagines the expression on Alfred’s face when he must have stepped into his room with a breakfast tray only to find Bruce’s bed made and un-slept in: a sharp blend of disappointment, exasperation, and resignation.

Bruce turns as Alfred approaches and he sees nearly the same expression still deepening the lines of the old man’s face, only with a little less disappointment and a little more of the latter two.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred greets. “You realize that beds tend to work much better if you actually sleep in them?”

Bruce smiles. Amidst all of the ragged holes in his life where certain people used to be, there is still Alfred. “Good morning, Alfred.”

“Good morning, sir.” Alfred eyes the coffee cup in Bruce’s fingers with disapproval. “May I ask what you’ve been doing down here? I understand that you were missed at the board meeting today.”

“My snoring was missed, you mean.” Even during the months that had spanned the Joker’s trial and brief incarceration in Arkham, Bruce’s sleep had been broken and unrestful—diseased with the sounds of the Joker’s shrill laughter and strangled with all of the what-ifs and maybes stringing around Rachel’s death. More often than not, his body had taken advantage of the quiet hum of voices and shuffling papers in board meetings to snatch an hour or so of dreamless sleep.

“It’s the Joker,” Bruce explains. “The note lead me to a body in the Narrows. The corpse was fixed to look like a bat. He left a card with two more notes.” Bruce shows Alfred the card—still in the bag—and then gestures towards the computer. “I can’t figure out what it means. I’ve been staring at this all night and I still don’t know where he’s trying to lead me.”

“Sleep might help with that, sir,” Alfred replies mildly, bending to peer at the poem on the monitor. “ _Phantasmagoria_. I would have thought he’d have picked something from _Alice in Wonderland_.”

Bruce blinks. “Why?”

Alfred straightens and turns to look at him. “Well Master Wayne, from what you’ve told me, he’s running with a card theme. If he’s going to quote Lewis Carroll, it would make more sense to pick the work that features playing cards as actual characters. But, this _is_ the Joker…”

Bruce is no longer listening. Sight and sound has drained away from him like blood pouring from a wound, leaving him grey and stunned with shock. Images flash through his mind with the force of lightning and his ears are deaf with their thunder.

Alice in Wonderland.

The Queen of Hearts.

_The Gardens._

“Master Bruce!” Bruce snaps back into himself and stares into Alfred’s wide-eyed, concerned face. The older man looks poised as though to catch Bruce if he should topple over.

Bruce takes a slow breath and squeezes his hands to tighten around his coffee cup, only to find that the coffee cup is gone. It had slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. _Little wonder why Alfred is so alarmed_ , Bruce thinks. Then he says, “The Joker’s clue. I know what it means.”

Alfred blinks. A second passes. “Ah,” he says, catching on. “It _is_ Alice, then?”

Bruce nods and moves to the computer where he types and searches for as many references to the Queen of Hearts as he can find. “The stanza on the card is a smokescreen. He used it because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Wonderful sense of humor, that man,” Alfred says dryly.

Bruce clicks a link. “The real clue was the author. You were right, Alfred.” He scans the text on the screen; Alice meets the Queen of Hearts at the garden entrance. But Bruce only needs to read the first sentence to know where he needs to go, and what the Joker is planning to do.

Bruce straightens abruptly and heads down the hall towards the armory. If he’s quick enough, maybe he can stop the Joker before he kills again.

“Sir, where are you going?” Alfred calls after him.

Bruce pauses and half turns, surprised that Alfred even had to ask. “The Botanical Gardens.”

“Now, sir?”

Bruce stares at the older man. “Alfred, it may not be too late to stop him.”

“Sir, it’s the middle of the afternoon,” Alfred explains patiently. “What are you going to do? Stalk the grounds in plain view for several hours? Even you can’t watch the entire Botanical Gardens in broad daylight with people milling about everywhere without being seen.”

Bruce winces. He had thought of that, but… “What would you have me do, then? I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Alfred walks over to him. “You should _eat_ , Master Wayne. I’ll wager that you’ve had nothing but coffee for the last twenty hours. What’s the point in chasing the Joker when you have no energy?”

Bruce winces again. Food has been the last thing on his mind. His stomach chooses that moment to rumble reproachfully. He sighs and relents. “Fine.”

Alfred claps his shoulder and guides him towards the lift. Bruce reassures himself that the Joker won’t be at the Gardens until nightfall anyway, not if he plans to frame Batman for this next crime as the stanza on the card implies. And once darkness falls, Batman will be there, waiting for him.

The lift takes Alfred and Bruce away. The computer screen is still lit. The cursor highlights a sentence in grey:

“ _A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red.”_

~*~

Batman is in the Botanical Gardens before their admissions booths shut their windows for the day. He had hacked into their security system earlier so that he could watch the visitors leave. He doesn’t think the Joker will try to use the front door, but Batman can’t forget the attack on the Mayor four months ago. The Joker had been in the front row, armed and faceless, and no one had known.

Batman watches the entrance camera feed on a small handheld device and searches the grainy grey image for scars. He is hidden in the darkest shadows of one of the greenhouses, waiting while caretakers tend to the plants and the custodial staff clean up trash. There are roses in this particular building—Batman keeps watch on that area—but there are roses scattered everywhere else in the Botanical Gardens as well. He cannot watch them all at once.

In times like this, Batman is frightened by the knowledge that he does not know what the Joker looks like without his costume. He has never seen the man without his bright clothing, painted face, or dyed hair. He thinks the hair might be blonde beneath the green and grease, but he isn’t sure. He knows the shape of the Joker’s face, knows its wrinkles and edges, but even though he also knows the color of the Joker’s skin, he still can’t mesh the two together in his mind. The scars are the only defining physical aspects of him that stay when the costume is gone, but even those could be hidden with some theatre prosthetics.

Batman never realized until now how _faceless_ of an enemy the Joker really is.

It scares him.

But he is _Batman_ ; he doesn’t show his fear. He _is_ fear, so instead he will show the Joker that he cannot be twisted by the madman’s mind games.

He waits. Darkness pools in corners and under dense foliage, spilling into shadows until they overflow upon the walkways. The last of the staff departs. Batman is alone.

He wastes no time; Batman switches his cowl’s thermal sensors on and sweeps through the building. Finding no one, he takes his search outside and climbs to rooftops for a more encompassing view of the grounds before sweeping through the rest of the buildings. He moves swiftly and efficiently. Each time he clears a location, he leaves behind a concealed motion sensor. Within an hour, the Botanical Gardens are peppered with a sentinel army of mechanical eyes.

Five hours later, the Joker still has not appeared.

Batman pauses in his rounds to pick up a newspaper from the gift shop stands. He puts fifty cents on the countertop in payment and then walks out, sifting through the pages. He scans the headlines until he finds what he’d been looking for.

_**BATMAN STRIKES AGAIN!** _

_An unidentified man was found brutally murdered in the Narrows this morning, police report. While Police Commissioner Gordon has stated that there are no official suspects yet, other sources have reported that the trademark signal of the Batman was found on the victim. Batman has also been implicated in the murders of District Attorney Harvey Dent and Salvatore Maroni…_

The remainder of the article is filled with descriptions of his alleged past crimes as well as speculations on his motives and where he might strike next. There is no mention of the Joker. Batman finds nothing else of interest. He folds the paper up and deposits it on a nearby bench. Then he takes to the rooftops again and wonders where the hell the Joker is.

_I can’t have missed him_ , Batman thinks as he begins another sweep through the grounds and buildings. _It isn’t even midnight yet. I have a while._

He waits. Midnight comes and goes without any break in the still silence. Batman goes back to the gift shop and deposits enough coin for a can of coffee.

By 2AM, he’s getting antsy. The caretaking staff might show up as early as five. Surely the Joker will have to make his move before then. Batman frowns. _Unless…_

He drops to the ground and prowls the area, this time not looking for a _person_ so much as looking for clues that he might have missed. He pays particular attention to every rose bush he finds, especially the red and white ones. He pokes between their thorny arms and sniffs the air for telltale rot and honeysuckle sweetness. He finds nothing but earth and drowsy bees.

He takes his search indoors. Roses are cultivated in two places, he remembers; one of them was where he had hidden himself while waiting for the Gardens to clear. Batman heads to the other building first.

The roses are red and white, growing in a tangled cluster of soft petals and needlelike thorns. They are denser than the other roses Batman has searched through, so he approaches them with caution and increased awareness. _Something isn’t right,_ he realizes. He slows to a stop and stares at the roses. _The pattern is strange._

A chill drops his stomach like a stone. He takes two steps forward and catches a red flower in his gloved fingers. When his thumb swipes across the petals, the red smears away with it, revealing pink-stained white beneath.

… _the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red._

Batman goes cold. For a moment all he can do is stare at the flower and wonder how the Joker had gotten past him. Then he wonders whose blood has been used as paint, and abruptly he is pushing against thorns and digging between branches, looking for a corpse.

But he doesn’t find one. Perplexed, Batman extricates himself from the bushes and stares at them.

_What the…_

Batman takes a step back and frowns. He takes another and stops, eyes widening as the entire stretch of roses fills his vision and the pattern fits together like pieces of a puzzle, all lining up just right.

The crude shape of a bat with wings outstretched has been painted onto the flowers, like something from a twisted connect-the-dots drawing booklet. In the very center, Batman spots a card.


End file.
